


The Distance Between Then and Now

by feverishsea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Spoilers for Season 2!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 17,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverishsea/pseuds/feverishsea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out, dying changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exhibit A

Things are different now.

 

Of course they are; it would have been foolish of me to think they might not be.

 

But I hoped otherwise.

 

That was also foolish of me.

 

“I’ve just been to get the groceries,” John says, walking in with both hands full of Tesco bags. “How’s your day been?” He gives me a quick smile, sets the bags on the kitchen table, and begins to unpack them.

 

This is the difference between then and now.

 

Then: Grumbling. Insults. Shove at door with foot. No space for bags on table; have to hold awkwardly in arms to unpack. Silence.

 

“Oh, I’ve been keeping busy. Running an experiment on the rate of mold growth on polyester fabrics. Might be able to solve one of Lestrade’s cold cases if it all pans out. Of course, it would have been infuriatingly easy to solve at the time, but the evidence crew botched in. Bunch of Andersons.” I give a dramatic eye roll. John laughs, nods, and shuts the fridge. “To prove it now, I need to create data to prove my hypothesis. Of course, it isn’t really a hypothesis so much as a fact, since I am obviously right, but judges are infuriatingly simple that way.”

 

“That they are.” John sits in his armchair, the one across from mine. Falls into it really, with a thump and a sigh. He gives me another brief smile and opens the paper.

 

Now: Greetings. Courtesy. Careful nudge at door with shoulder. Table clear of my experiments; all are kept either in my room or on a small – but not overtly cautiously small – patch of the living room table. Friendly chatter (references to subjects we both know, keep it inclusive).

 

I drum my fingers along the bow of my violin. I was about to play when John walked in, but now I won’t.

 

Then: Tweaks and bursts of sound, to match my mood and thoughts. “Fiddling.” John complaining. Possibly John leaving. Me letting him go, ambivalent.

 

Now: Compositions, flowing and breathtaking. John listening. John praising. Me keeping him here, a victory of omission.

 

It’s quicker to skip to the end result: John and I sitting here, counting down the minutes until we need to demonstrate that we are us again.

 

John huffs out a breath and pushes the paper away. I shouldn’t speak; I’ve already read what he has read by the clench of his jaw and sharp flick of his wrist.

 

“What is it?” I ask. Innocuous. Curious. Concerned, but almost imperceptibly so. Just not imperceptibly enough that John won’t see.

 

Still playing the game. Poorly, but this is not a game that either of us particularly excel at.

 

“Nothing.” John shakes his head and aims a tight smile in my direction, though he looks away from both me and the paper. “It’s – it’s nothing.”

 

“More about me?” I stay reliably self-obsessed.

 

John glances at me, then away, then realizes his tell. His shoulders tense slightly.

 

“Yeah. Those bastards just won’t leave it alone.” He doesn’t clench his hand into a fist, but I see his fingers twitch an echo of one. “After everything you did, they still…”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. Exasperated honest bored disinterest. Easy to know what I need to convey, slightly more difficult to convey it. “I know what I did and did not do. I couldn’t care less what the newspapers have to say. Honestly John, surely you have better uses for your time and energy. I don’t understand why you persist in being offended by underpaid drudge trawlers.”

 

His shoulders relax as I dismiss, exonerate, forgive the accusations and anger of the press.

 

Forgive him.

 

“You’re right,” he says with a rueful shrug. “Course, you’re always right.”

 

It’s off-key; nothing close to what he might have said or meant then. John is worse at this game than I am. Of course, he is likely playing it more honestly. It’s difficult to say. The data is unreliable. Emotions are blurry smears across graphs; impossible to accurately map. A dependent variable with an infinite number of independent variables.

 

My curse: the need for finite data points. I can’t understand emotions completely, so I don’t understand them at all. Possibly it’s because I don’t have any, or because mine are flawed in some way. That has been the pervasive opinion of mental health specialists surveyed on the topic of me.

 

I would guess they are wrong, but I don’t know exactly what it is I do have; cannot definitively illustrate or prove how it affects me. So I might have nothing at all, may be a metaphoric tin man. Impossible to tell; frustrating to even contemplate.

 

“What are your plans for the evening?” I ask. John’s statement was flawed, so I ignore it. Any response I could have made would have been necessarily flawed as well. Better to deviate.

 

Besides, I strive for honesty when I can.

 

“Um… Don’t have any, really.” John creases his forehead and blinks rapidly. Signals of genuine anxiety, though only small amounts of it. He’s ashamed or worried by or about this fact.

 

Is that something I can fix? I open my mouth to find out – aiming for honesty – but then close it again. It would be honest. But it would break the rules. It is not a question I would have concerned myself with then. It is a now question.

 

“Actually, I’ve just realized something.” I stand up, unceremoniously but surreptitiously carefully drop my bow into the open violin case. “Need to go out. Don’t wait up.” I cross the room in three strides and tug on my jacket.

 

“Do you want - ” John starts and then pauses, furrows his brow deeper. He can’t remember if this question belongs to then or now. Stalemate; neither can I.

 

“I think Mrs. Hudson had some tarts baking last I saw. And do mind you don’t disturb the yellow beaker!” I sweep out the door and slam it shut behind me. The mention of the tarts makes me hungry; I search my pockets. No cash for a taxi or for tarts. No matter; I’m not actually going anywhere. I can as well wander on foot as in a cab when my destination is irrelevant.

 

Then: Rush out the door at a moment’s notice.

 

Now: Rush out the door because it’s what I would have done, then.

 

This is not a game I enjoy playing.


	2. Umbrella Charges

“This is a lovely surprise, isn’t it?”

 

“No.” I drop into the chair across from Mycroft’s. His presence is actually aiding my surveillance, and there’s no other time I particularly want to be bothered with him, so there’s no point avoiding him now. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

 

“A chocolate gateau, but alas.” He raises his eyebrows and sips his black coffee. “Anything you would like?”

 

“Would have bought it if I did.”

 

He beats me to the punch by acknowledging his weight issues; patronizes me by offering to buy me things. I lash out, but not too far.

 

Then: He would have patronized me. I would have lashed out.

 

Now: He makes something of a joke. I make courtesy jabs at him.

 

Mycroft and I’s then and now have seamlessly converged; a perfect, ideal specimen. Perhaps our eyes have been opened by the proximity of loss. Perhaps we have both grown as people.

 

I suspect it’s simply easier when you never actually liked each other to begin with.

 

“Yes, well.” He has been attempting to make eye contact for three solid minutes. It’s not petulance that keeps me from looking back. I’m watching for a waitress with pink-streaked hair. And Mycroft doesn’t have the time to be patient (ever). “I simply wished to inquire as to how things were… proceeding.”

 

“Fine.” I close my mouth. I do have the time to be patient (probably), but I don’t have the inclination. I open my mouth. “What is it you’re actually here to ask me? I don’t care what it is, so how about you give me a delightful surprise and get to the point already?”

 

Mycroft’s eyes shut for almost a full second on a blink, his version of rolling his eyes. Constraint is boring.

 

“Very well. I wanted to ask you how things are between you and Dr. Watson.”

 

My eyes jerk away from the empty space over his shoulder and land on his face. Damn. A year of consistent solitude has weakened the defenses around my tells. It doesn’t matter right now, but it easily could in another encounter. Something to work on.

 

The question is interesting. I study Mycroft’s face, wondering why he wants to know.

 

Unfortunately, constraint does have its rewards. I have no idea what he wants.

 

“We are flatmates, occasionally colleagues, and friends. Next?” I’ll actually be disappointed if he moves on. The last time Mycroft was curious about John was the first day they met. I want to know what it is that he can’t observe on his own.

 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows and frowns at me. He thinks I’m being stubborn. I’m not.

 

Then: Wouldn’t bother to enlighten him.

 

Now: Don’t bother to enlighten him.

 

Delightfully simple.

 

“Honestly Sherlock, I don’t know why you persist in making things so difficult. The man is obviously important to you, so I simply wished to know if your relationship was… shall we say, mending itself.” He maintains eye contact with me, and the lines of his face are relaxed. The concern could be a skillful lie, but I doubt it.

 

John Watson is important to me. Statement: true. I want to know why Mycroft believes it is obvious, though. Is it because I was willing to sacrifice my reputation for him? (Wasn’t just for him, thought it was just for him, would have done it just for him, but didn’t in the end.) Is it because I spent a year taking out Moriarty’s network so they couldn’t wreak punishment on John if I came back? (Also wasn’t just for him.) Is it because I came back? (John was not the only factor. He never is. Life is too complicated for single factors.)

 

Mycroft does roll his eyes – purposefully, doing it to make me more comfortable. A loss of control to set us on even footing. Calculated, but it works anyway.

 

“Don’t give yourself a brain hemorrhage trying to figure out how I know he’s important to you, Sherlock. For goodness sake – if seeing the two of you palling around before your little… jump… wasn’t enough, there is the fact that since you’ve come back you have attempted to resume precisely your former state of affairs.” Mycroft smiles – a quick jerk of one side of his mouth. “And how is that going?”

 

I shrug and look over his shoulder again. Ah, there’s the waitress, and – yes, she has a platinum ring instead of a gold one. Excellent. Case closed, in essence.

 

“Ah.” I resist the temptation to look back at his face. Whether his expression is smug, sympathetic, thoughtful. No matter what, I won’t be pleased. “Would you like any sort of assistance?”

 

I feel my shoulders jerk slightly in shock. I don’t look at him, but it’s involuntary this time. My body has chosen to freeze. The reaction of cornered animals everywhere.

 

“What sort of assistance could you possibly provide me?” Honesty seems easier than it used to be, these days. Looking constantly preoccupied, bored, and disinterested is somewhat a thing of the past (except with John – after all, it belongs to then). Can’t be bothered with an image, these days.

 

The desire for honesty comes naturally. The ability to actually be honest is more elusive.

 

Mycroft frowns and taps his umbrella. This meeting is drawing to a close; some other meeting is beginning to loom in his mind. I’m almost regretful. This is the first interesting conversation we’ve had in years.

 

“If I knew that, Sherlock, I would have done it already.” His voice is slightly disapproving, annoyed at my lack of faith in him. He thinks I should trust him to keep to the rules of our own game – finding the perfect balance between dislike and family sentiment.

 

I take the time to consider the resources available to Mycroft. In actuality, there’s very little he has that I do not. We have the same education, breeding, intellect. The only significant difference between us is money.

 

Does Mycroft think that I want him to bribe John to stay with me?

 

Now I am staring openly at Mycroft, attention solely focused on him. He looks unnerved. My interest in him isn’t a common occurrence.

 

“Are you attempting to revert to old habits as well?” I ask him acidly. “I believe you tried this once before, and he said no.”

 

Mycroft grimaces – distaste at either the idea or at my lack of perception.

 

“Would you allow him to remain near you if he were to accept?”

 

Now I am the one grimacing at his idiocy. Of course I would allow him to stay. If it would keep him closer to me, I would beg him to take the money. But I am not completely unperceptive to emotional matters, even if I don’t understand them. That sort of binding breeds guilt and shame and distrust. It would not bring him closer to me, it would drive him away.

 

“He wouldn’t accept and I don’t want you to offer. Or talk to him. Or to me, for that matter. Isn’t there someone else in the commonwealth you should be bothering?”

 

Mycroft blows out a sigh. His lips are pursed and there is a small furrow in the middle of his forehead. He looks more concerned than he did at the start of our little meeting.

 

“Sherlock.” He pauses. For effect or gathering his thoughts? Don’t know, don’t care. “Please, leave off with all this inner anguish. It’s all quite unnerving. I don’t think you need have any fear of Dr. Watson removing himself from your presence.”

 

“I’m not afraid of that,” I snap, because it’s true.

 

“Then what do you fear?” he asks, frustration bleeding into his voice. His fingernails leave marks in his Styrofoam cup.

 

John realizing that now will never be close enough to then to satisfy either of us, and giving up entirely because he’s tired of trying to make it happen. Settling for now – stilted conversations, pleasantries, studiously enforced familiarity. Becoming two people who aren’t really happy together, but can’t be happy apart.

 

Pathetic honesty or bracing lies?

 

“John being assassinated via umbrella for punching you in the nose if you turn up unexpectedly.”

 

Maybe honesty isn’t so easy after all.

 

The umbrella taps the ground and Mycroft’s hand clenches involuntarily around his coffee for a second time. Interesting. He has some genuine fear of John, compulsive enough to be based on previous events. Only because Mycroft can’t defend himself from John in his customary manner without hurting me, but still.

 

I’d like to know what those events were, but I’d rather ask John than Mycroft. It’s an opportunity for honesty.

 

“Ricin charges? How quaint.” A now-smile tugs at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth, and he walks out of the café.

 


	3. Better Questions

"So you're trying to tell me that the platinum ring was some kind of signal?" Lestrade scrunches up his face doubtfully.

 

I inwardly scream and clench my hand tight in my pocket. Doubt? After all these years, still the questioning of my methods? They think what occurred between now and then gives them some kind of right to their idiotic doubt. They used to hide it. I liked it better when they hid it.

 

"Yes, you - Yes, in essence. It alerted the bartender so that he could go to the back and meet the smugglers. Gold meant no go, platinum meant go. Yes?"

 

Lestrade rubs a hand over his stubble and sighs. "Sure," he says, sounding distracted. He glances up at me and then away. Is he distracted by me? For God's sake, if the man has decided to take some sort of ill-advised sexual interest in me, I will show them what a properly executed hissy fit looks like.

 

"I'll just be off then," I say, making my voice as cold as possible. Oddly, it sounds strange to my ears, like that tone has fallen out of use of late.

 

"Just a moment," Lestrade says, throwing up a hand and now focusing completely on me. Oh, wonderful. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. "I feel like I should - well, I wanted to - er, how's things?"

 

"Fine," I say, not bothering to hide my impatience. "Fine, things are superb. If that's all, I'll be..."

 

Lestrade rolls his eyes and holds up his hand again. "Okay, Sherlock. Let me try this again. How's John?"

 

"John?" I frown. "Why does everyone keep asking me about John?" He isn’t their concern. He never was then. Why is everyone so bloody interested now?

 

"Well, I've already talked to you about the work," Lestrade points out, then winces. "Ah hell, I didn't mean that the way it... Actually, maybe I did. I don't even know if that bothers you."

 

He has a point, so I shrug. "You were saying?"

 

"Right. Well. John. Things have been sort of... difficult, haven't they? I mean, it's a big adjustment after him thinking you dead a whole year."

 

His language is maddeningly imprecise; it sends my mind spiraling through theories and sentence fragments. I don’t know if who the big adjustment was for, me or John. I don’t know which Lestrade is referring to, and I don’t know which is right. John was always important, as soon as I met him – I just never really bothered to think about why, before, or to do anything about it. There didn’t seem to be any pressing need. We had so much time, then.

 

Lestrade stares at me and I’m suddenly aware that I’ve been staring into space for far too long. I grimace to myself. Talking to idiots is a waste of time.

 

"Thank you for your stunning insights, Inspector. It has been less than a pleasure. Please see yourself out."

 

"Well, I'll be - hey, this is my crime scene!"

 

"Is it? And yet here you are, handcuff and charge-free."

 

Lestrade is clenching and unclenching his fists, getting slowly red in the face. Mildly amusing at least.

 

"Shut up for a second, Sherlock," he says, breathing heavily. "I just - Christ, you know what, this is pointless. I just wanted to help, but never mind." He turns on his heel and leaves. Of course he does. He finally says something interesting, and then he goes. Why do people do that?

 

“Good going, freak,” a familiar voice says from behind me. Could have done with leaving that one in the then, but some things have pushed determinedly back into my now.

 

I roll my eyes, but Lestrade being marginally interesting (and mentioning John) has put me in a better mood, so I allow her to engage. “Sally. Dusting any significant floors with the hem of your skirts these days?”

 

She snarls her lip at me from where she’s leaning back against a squad car.

 

“The more things change, the more things stay the same, I guess,” she says. I repeat the eye roll. Honestly, people do insist on their dramatic meaningless statements. “Look at you, right back to pushing everyone away. You’d think a year… away would have sweetened you up a bit.”

 

“I fail to see why dying would put me in a better mood.” It’s what they all mean. Nobody says the word, but it’s what they all think. I didn’t die, but I might as well have, even if I did come back.

 

The irritation drops from her face for a second, and she just looks perplexed.

 

“Why’d you bother coming back, if you’re not even happy?”

 

It’s a better question than she knows, so I walk away.


	4. Other People

"John!" I bellow, running up the stairs (why walk when you can run?) and throwing open the door. I do love a good dramatic flair, and so few people can accomplish it the way I can (it took years of practice, but thankfully junkies have poor short-term memory and in any case I don't see them anymore). "John, I solved it!"

 

"Did you, then?" John appears from around the corner, holding a cup of tea. There are tired creases in his face, but he's smiling. "Go on, tell me what happened."

 

So I do. I flop down on the sofa and drawl out an entertaining, if less scientifically precise than I would prefer, explanation of the whole delightfully sordid tale. John frowns in concentration, laughs, shakes his head, and tells me I was brilliant. I was, but that's not the point. I just like to hear it.

 

Actually, I just like to hear it from him. Other people say it, occasionally, but they never say it _right_. They say it like I've done a magic trick and they're trying to see razor-edge wires in the air, or, more rarely, like I'm some sort of god descended from on high. Neither of these are right - it's not a trick, and it wouldn't be impressive if I was omniscient.

 

John says it the way he said it once about those Chinese circus performers (who really were quite good acrobats) - amazed and impressed, and happy to be so. It's just enough; not too much. I believe him.

 

And it hasn't changed at all between then and now. Sometimes I think that's what I like the most. It isn't true, but sometimes I think it anyway.

 

"Then Donovan showed up, and I deduced that it was time to leave," I say with a bit of a grin. It's not something I would have said before, but I say it anyway, because I know it will make John laugh. Somewhere between then and now my sense of humor seems to have grown. Perhaps I'd never wanted anything to laugh at before. Sitting cold and injured and alone in hotel rooms with very bad men chasing me, I found myself remembering shared laughter in impossible situations, and trying to find the funny side of things. Like if I could think of a good enough joke John would show up to laugh with me.

 

That didn't happen, but listening to him laugh now is very nearly the same thing.

 

"Good deduction." He grins, looking far less tired and more alive. I am good for him, I think. Though it probably wasn't very good when he thought I was dead. I don't know; I haven't asked. He punched me in the face once, but otherwise has been all but silent on the subject. "Maybe next time I'll come along and play traffic cop."

 

We both tense slightly after he says it, almost like a wince. John coming along on cases is something of a sensitive subject. It's one thing to play out this balancing act around each other, but doing it in front of people who know what it was like then, is intolerable.    

 

So I never really ask him to come with me, and he never really asks to come, and it hovers between us, the spectre of then. But now John has put out his hand, revealing the illusion, and I don't know what to say.

 

I look away and clear my throat; I think he does the same.

 

"Tell me, why is my brother afraid of you?" I ask.

 

His head jerks up and I feel him stare. "Mycroft is scared of me?"

 

"Perhaps not precisely how you think, but yes. What did you do?"

 

John props his elbows up on the table, clasps his hands together, and looks away. There is the beginning of a flush on his cheeks, and his eyes are lowered. He looks almost... shy? Very odd. A connection from earlier sparks in my brain and I begin praying to every imaginary god in existence that John did not proposition my brother.

 

"I might have sort of, er, threatened him a bit," he mutters at the living room floor. I am extremely relieved, and smile at him to show it, but he isn't looking. "When you - Well. He was the one that told Moriarty that stuff, all that information, and I kind of snapped."

 

"Snapped how?" I inquire, interested, but John doesn't look amused. He shakes his head.

 

"I shouldn't have done it. He was a fu- Mycroft was an idiot, but he was hurting too. Only..." His breathing speeds up incrementally, and he rests his forehead on his clasped hands, staring down at the table instead of the floor. "Only I guess he wasn't, because he knew, didn't he? I guess it was just me."

 

"It wasn't just you. There were other people who didn't know," I say, thrown completely off-guard into now and scrambling for an appropriate response.

 

John's hands clench together so tightly that his knuckles go white. "Other people. Yeah." He doesn't look up.

 

We sit there for what feels like hours but is actually about two minutes. I know that I should say something, but the silence is comfortable. Familiar. As long as it stretches out, I can't make any mistakes.

 

"Right." John slides his hands to the table and finally looks at me with an undeniably forced grin. "I'm going out tonight. Got a rugby practice with some blokes... Figured I'd best start getting out of your hair a bit." He chuckles weakly and stands up, walking past me and into the kitchen.

 

Or maybe I can.

 

 


	5. What He's Like

It turns out that being the one sitting at home, waiting for the other person to come back, is both boring and pathetic enough to drive me mad. I’m not sure how John has borne it this long.

 

I try very hard not to remember that John has in fact done this for more like a whole year, with a much more permanent idea in mind.

 

I endure three nights of John coming home, sweaty and tired and largely mute, before I crack. I deduce (alright, I steal his laptop and hack into it, if you can call guessing his mother’s maiden name hacking) that there is a rugby match with some other group of overage office minions on Wednesday. So I go to it.

 

The field is some rubbish patch of slightly mown grass in the middle of a park that probably sees a dozen drug deals a day, and there’s mud on the ground, and also not enough bleachers. There are other people watching though, which is good, because after a year in hiding I can’t quite reconcile myself to standing alone, a target.

 

It would be better if John were standing here. He would have been, then. But _then_ he would have come on all my cases and sat and talked with me like it was easy because it was and cut short all his dates and never joined a rugby team, because he wouldn’t have had the time. But this is now, so very now that I feel lost in it.

 

“Who are you here for?” I blink down at a far too smiley woman in a far too short skirt for this weather. She’s clearly on her own and doesn’t feel comfortable with it, so she’s looking for a temporary friend. I am most certainly not, but I suspect John will be less than pleased were I to cause a scene, and anyhow I’m bored, so I sigh and resign myself to banal pleasantries.

 

“Oh, just there.” I point at the entire team; no need to be cagey, since she clearly only knows one member of it anyway. “How about you?” I ask, to distract her. If she starts talking, which her much-abused cell phone peeking out of her purse tells me she will, I can simply tune her out.

 

“I’m here for John.” She giggles and my eyes fly open wide. “The blond, there?” She points to John, who is being shown some sort of wrestling move and thankfully not looking over.

 

I immediately turn gay, smiling and effeminate, so she won’t think I’m coming on to her. “Oh are you, well done! What’s he like?” I think about adding on a few more compliments, but I don’t know what to say. How do you compliment the legs or arse of a man who’s killed for you?

 

Oddly enough, she frowns fleetingly before shaping her expression into a smile. “Go – ood,” she says uncertainly. “I mean… he’s very nice. Well, he seems very… good. He’s a doctor,” she adds with a flash of proprietary pride that seems a bit misplaced. I raise my eyebrows and coo obligingly, and she smiles a bit wider.

 

She prattles on about something that has nothing to do with either John, science, or dead bodies, and is therefore uninteresting. I tune her out and watch.

 

The match starts and the players jog onto the field and have at it. The game is rough but jovial; people dive after the ball, hit each other soundly, and laugh all the while. It’s almost like a crime scene, but for normal people. I think I see why John might like it.

 

I’ve never seen him like this, though, not even then. John is smiling open-mouthed like he holds no secrets or lies; like the world is simple and easy and landing a good tackle is the only thing he's ever wanted. A huge brute from the other team plows into him and knocks him flat on his back; I hear John’s laughter echo all the way across the field.

 

He looks almost young, with his easy stance and the muscles corded along his arms and legs. It’s a John I’ve never seen before, and I’m not entirely comfortable at the revelation, though I’m not at all sure why.

 

Someone blows a whistle, and apparently this means something. The players drop the ball to jog back over to the audience. I stand quietly and wait to see what will happen. John’s inane girlfriend waves madly beside me.

 

John walks over with a small smile on his lips, tousling his hair with one hand. Like a young man. I try to stop myself from gaping as I see – surely not? – the blue edges of a tattoo peeking out from underneath his shirtsleeve.

 

While I’m staring, trying my level best to see through cotton, John sees me.

 

His face drops instantly, and it’s like a punch to the gut. Possibly even a stab wound. He looks startled and immediately wary, like there are guards in place that he hasn’t managed to get up yet. The line of his shoulders and back goes tense, and in front of my eyes John goes from a laughing young man to a battle-hardened soldier staring at the front line.

 

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” he asks roughly, his gaze sliding over the idiot girlfriend like she doesn’t exist. I see her pout out of the corner of my eye.

 

“I…” I swallow hard and blink, trying to think of a reason that I really should have invented before I trailed him here.

 

Before I can make myself think it hits me, like the identity of a murderer or the location of a kidnap victim, in a flash of blinding light. John stands there still panting from exertion, a frown on his face and his left arm strained and he doesn’t even like me right now, maybe won’t ever like me again.

 

And oh - _oh_ , I _want_ him.


	6. Burning Bright

Of course, wanting doesn’t mean taking, or getting, or having.

 

Realizing that I want John doesn’t actually change a single thing, except that I spend the night stretched on the sofa pondering whether this happened back then and I just didn’t realize it, or if it happened right the fuck now out of nowhere, or if it really went on somewhere in between.

 

John storms downstairs in the morning and mutters darkly to the kettle. Ah yes, John spent long enough glaring and speculating at me that his girlfriend stormed off in a huff, and it was fifteen minutes before he even noticed. I bid him a cautious good morning and he glares. The flash of his blue eyes and his rumpled hair is distracting me – distracting me from thinking about him. I look away.

 

“What were you playing at, Sherlock?” he demands. The rough traces of sleep in his voice drag down my spine. “You can’t just show up and play silly beggars whenever you feel like it!”

 

“Why not?” I find myself asking. I look up and see surprise register through his frown. “What did I do that was so offensive, John?” My tone is more defensive than it ought to be. By all rights I should be apologizing, still. But apologies grow boring so quickly, as do all futile things.

 

John opens his mouth and closes it again. He frowns, but it doesn’t look angry now; he looks confused. “You… I…” He shakes his head.

 

The kettle sings out and, clearly glad of the distraction, John grabs at it. I watch because I can’t seem to do anything else. My eyes trace the outline of muscles under his shirt, the light tan on his arms, the way his shirt falls around his waist.

 

I’m watching, so I see John’s shoulders suddenly go tight. He swears, a hiss of sharp pain threaded in his voice.

 

Before I realize what I’m doing I’ve gotten up from my chair, crossed the room, and am standing next to John. We both stare at his arm and the angry red mark spreading across it, courtesy of the just-boiled water. I grab his arm, turn on the tap, and hold the burn under the cool water. He looks up at me, his blue eyes wide, like just for a second he trusts me to take away the pain.

 

Or maybe it’s that he trusts me to give it to him. I never was skilled at reading emotions.

 

“Sorry,” I tell him. I need to fill the air around me with something other than the heat of John’s gaze and his wrist under my fingers. He just blinks; doesn’t say anything. I find myself leaning closer. He doesn’t move. I always did have poor impulse control.

 

“Sorry,” I repeat, though I hate the repetition even as I utter it. I pull my hand away from his arm. I can’t think of anything else to say, so I turn and walk back to my chair, even though when the surprise fades from John’s face pain bleeds back through. It doesn’t matter; he can handle it. I know that I can’t, so I need to back away.

 

Because there are other things I want; things that are more complicated and harder to reach than John’s body.

 

“Thanks,” John finally says, biting his lip and turning his attention to the burn flaring to life on his arm. “That was clumsy of me.”

 

“You’re tired after the match. Did you win?” I can’t explain; can’t apologize for showing up. This will have to do.

 

Something that could be either a smile or a frown tugs at the corner of John’s mouth. He never used to be so subtle. I’m not even sure he’s being subtle now. Maybe I just never tried to read him before. I didn’t need to. I remember it being easy as breathing, instinctively ignoring what we wanted and responding to what each other needed. There was adrenaline, an audience, and tolerance. Things that should have been hugely difficult and overwhelming weren't, because we let them be easy. I wish I could remember how to let things be easy.

 

“Lost. If you show up next time, you better cheer. Or at least bring me a bottle of water.” John tosses me a quick grin over his shoulder and I realize that the morning sunlight has spilled past the curtains and into the middle of the flat, casting a warm glow over leather and wood.

 

Maybe we remember more than I thought.


	7. Flickers and Flares

The flicker of understanding flaring back to life between us is intoxicating. We sit in silence for most of the day, reading and eating and watching poorly produced television.

 

It’s not companionable silence. It would have been, then. Now the awareness of every second crackles in my mind, distracting me and pulling at my thoughts. But I can’t help it; don’t think John can help it either, by the way his mouth twitches first into smiles and then frowns. I want this to last so badly, and I don’t know how to make it happen, I don’t even know how we got here.

 

My phone beeps and both of us nearly jump out of our skin. We cough, avoid eye contact, and I check my phone, more to give myself something to do than out of any real interest.

 

_Decapitation nutter again. Will you come? GL_

I look reflexively up at John, who looks back for a moment before turning his attention to the newspaper spread open on his lap. His mouth twists into a wry upturn, but the smile is gone from his eyes.

 

My mind shoots in two directions at once. A fuse either blows or solders together, because I say, “Well, John? Coming?”

 

His head snaps up and his eyes go wide, whatever had been there a moment ago chased away by surprise. My stomach clenches in victory and I find myself smiling at him.

 

The smile fades from his face, leaving John looking uncertain. “You… you sure?” he asks. He opens his mouth again and then closes it; bites his lip. His eyebrows draw together like he’s angry at those words he didn’t say. I stare at his lips, wanting to draw out the words. Wanting to draw out John.

 

“Of course,” I say, and then my brain stutters on the next words. It is possible to come too close to before, despite how much we want to be there, and _I’d be lost without my blogger_ is it.

 

I snap my mouth closed, cross the room, and almost shrug into my coat before I remember that it’s summer. Well played, London. Making the fool of me again.

 

John’s footsteps – hesitant but solid – sound behind me and I sigh in relief.

 

My relief is short-lived.

 

The crime scene is a disaster, in every sense of the word. As soon as John walks in behind me, every officer clusters around to greet him like a long-lost friend. I try not to groan. John tries to be friendly and appreciative, which he’s never been particularly good at. There is a world of difference between “good” and “nice”, a fact very few people understand.

 

The body is useless. This time the killer was careful, and left no useful clues, not to mention it’s been lying around for at least a full day. I’m irritated at losing this round and irritated at wasting my time. “This is pointless,” I snap, and begin to walk away.

 

Then John tries to help.

 

“What about that, there?” He points to a cigarette lying on the ground nearby, within a few feet of the victim but half-hidden under a fallen leaf.

 

Of course, I’ve already seen it and judged it useless (wrong brand, wrong lipstick). But John used to help, didn’t he?

 

“That’s – yes, that could be worth looking at,” I say. “Bag it.” I gesture at Lestrade, who whistles and says, “Good eye,” to John.

 

John, who is glaring at me with his fists clenched and something very close to hatred in his eyes.

 

The cab ride home is silent. Thoughts swirl through my head, just out of reach. I’m beginning to remember why I wrote this whole emotions thing off to begin with. They are distracting, they are draining, and they are unpleasant. I never used to think about them.

 

I don’t think I can get back to then without them. But if I do make it back there, and I still have them, won’t it be different still? A paradox. I loathe it.

 

John leaps out of the cab as soon as it stops and I follow more slowly behind him, giving him time to fumble angrily with the keys and kick open the door, trip on the steps. I catch up just in time to stop him from slamming the door to our flat in my face.

 

“What in God’s name is your problem?” I say. I sound bored. I can’t remember how to sound like anything else.

 

“Oh, are we talking about this now?” He tilts his head, somehow mocking without even a pretense at a smile.

 

I shrug and he lifts his fist, angled like he’s going to slam it into the wall, but pulls back and lets it drop by his side.

 

“You ask me on a case, first one in months, and it’s like some goddamned pity lay,” he snarls. I can’t help but flinch.

 

John gives me that sneering half-smile half-frown that I never know what to do with. But I can’t even be entirely angry or worried, because I _remember_ it, and this is all so wrong. I can’t distinguish between memory and happiness anymore.

 

John paces away from me and looks into the mirror. He watches me; I watch him; we watch each other. It feels like a grotesque parody when he smiles at me where he used to frown, and his eyes are so much colder than they ever were back then.

 

“I think… l think you’ve wrecked me. I’m not the same and I can’t go back. I want – I should want – but I can’t. There was a whole year and I was just… nothing, absolutely nothing. I can’t function without you, and now you’re back and it doesn’t work anymore and you – you broke me, Sherlock, you fucking broke me. And don’t tell me you can fix it, because you can’t. I don’t even want you to.”

 

“Listen… listen,” I say, pleading, even though I don’t know how to make my voice sound right; don’t know how to convey that I’m begging. I sound like I’m flatlining. Maybe I am. Maybe if John leaves, I will. “I know that it must have been… bad for you. But…”

 

“YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING!” John bellows, swinging around to yell it straight to my face. His left fist shakes, but it’s not the intermittent tremor. He just wants to hit me. “YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO BE THE ONE THAT LIVED!”

 

“I know, but I couldn’t,” I say, talking too fast. “You see, I – I couldn’t be. You lived and ate and worked and maybe I would have done those things too, if it was you, but I rather doubt it because I’m thirty-five and you are the first person I’ve ever – and I don’t know what I would have done exactly; if I might have gone insane, or maybe killed people, or maybe a lot of people. I don’t – I know that’s not normal. Not very good. But I – I don’t know. So… so on balance, it seemed better to risk me, not you, really.”

 

His eyes are wide and he’s breathing hard and I don’t know if it’s him or me; if he’s still angry or if he’s scared.

 

He should be scared. He should be terrified of me.

 

I am.


	8. Unhelpful Evidence

John never actually responds to what I’ve said. Instead he snatches his keys from the kitchen counter and storms down the stairs.

 

Some things never do change. Unfortunately, they’re never the things I want to remain the same.

 

I debate texting, calling, or running out after him. But in the end I give in to familiarity as well, and just leave.

 

Lestrade is less than pleased to see me.

 

“… I might be more willing to talk to you if you weren’t such a bloody git every time you show up. It’s not like you’re the only one doing me a favor, you know? If you had any idea the kind of inquiry I had to go through after…” He breaks off and pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

I do have an idea, actually, because my brother made sure of it. He insists of informing me of all the little favors he does me, though only when it’s the ones I can’t help but be grateful for. If I didn’t have to be grateful to him, maybe I would hate him less.

 

Lestrade hasn’t brought it up until now because, in spite of frequent evidence, he does possess something of a brain. It doesn’t need to be spelled out that I did not disappear willingly.

 

In certain limited ways, Lestrade and I occasionally understand each other. He doesn’t want to thank me, and I don’t want his thanks. So we’ve avoided the topic altogether.

 

“By the way, that cigarette butt was spectacularly unhelpful,” Lestrade finally mutters, staring at the ground.

 

“I know.”

 

His brow creases. “Then why did you… Oh. Oh, right.” There’s another long silence, this one infinitely more uncomfortable than the last. This one is edging into pity.

 

He raises his hand like he’s going to clap me on the shoulder, but I stare at it pointedly and he lets it fall. “Well, I hope you, er… sort it out,” he says.

 

I roll my eyes. “Helpful. If you insist on speaking, you could at least make it relevant.”

 

It wasn’t actually a request for help – just a request for some sort of pretense at intelligent thought – but Lestrade seems to take it as one because he scratches the back of his head and says, “Have you actually, you know, talked about it?”

 

This time the eye-roll is involuntary, and hard enough to be painful. “Don’t be absurd. Of course we’ve discussed it.” At length, and at some volume.

 

Lestrade’s eyebrows fly up. “Oh, right then. Sorry, it’s just – neither of you seems much the type to be, well, you know.”

 

I don’t, but it doesn’t seem particularly relevant, so I don’t bother saying anything.

 

“I mean, you’re living together again and he’s clearly speaking to you, so he can’t be too angry with you. What’s the problem, exactly?”

 

“It’s not the same,” I say, shaking my head. I’m actually referring to speech and anger, but Lestrade once again takes my words the wrong way. I can see it in the way his eyes widen and his mouth softens.

 

“Hey,” he says, his voice lower now. “Just give it some time, yeah? You guys will get on with things eventually.”

 

“We’ve had time,” I remind him. Months of it, and both time and our inability to be the people we were before continues to push us further away from each other. “That is an astoundingly poor example of judgment, even for you.”

 

Oddly enough, he smiles.

 

“Don’t be a berk,” Lestrade says. “Or an idiot, come to that. I saw you two, remember? It’s still there. Whatever fucked-up co-dependent thing you guys had before, it’s the same. You just don’t remember it yet.”

 

I’m fairly certain he’s wrong (it isn’t really possible to be co-dependent while separated for an entire year, or at least I don’t think so). But even I can recognize genuine concern, so I say nothing, just walk out the door into the empty halls of Scotland Yard, and listen to my footsteps echo around me.

 


	9. Mutuality

John staggers against the doorway and points at me. “You… are not right in the head.”

 

“And you are drunk,” I say, barely glancing at him.

 

“Yes, well, not really the point, is’t?” He walks across the room and slumps into his armchair.

 

I shrug.

 

“Not fair. You just yell about being crazy and I’m s’posed to… s’posed to… leave you alone to ignore me s’more? Not fair.”

 

“John,” I say carefully, unsure about how much of a point there is having this conversation with a drunk man who’s going to hate himself in the morning, “I used to ignore you all the time. Nothing’s changed.”

 

Unexpectedly, John barks out a laugh and leans forward, elbows on his knees. Our eyes lock.

 

“Y’know why this isn’t working, right? You have to.”

 

“I don’t, actually. Enlighten me.” It’s such a dangerous game – honesty in drink, or utter nonsense? The temptation of answers is far more than enough to make me play it, though.

 

But instead of speaking John just shakes his head and looks away.

 

“Tell me,” I insist, but he doesn’t even glance in my direction.

 

I get out of my chair and walk over to him; kneel at the floor by his feet so I can stare at him and he can’t ignore it. This close I can feel the heat of his hand by my cheek; smell traces of whisky on his breath. I bite my lip.

 

“I want you to talk to me,” I say, my voice gone suddenly low and deep. It catches his attention; he turns his head toward me.

 

“You don’t,” he says bitterly, “you don’t even care…” and it’s enough, because I push myself up off my heels and kiss him.

 

It’s just a brush of my lips against his chapped, thin ones; a single intake of breath. But it sends a streak of heat searing through my body, making my eyes fall shut and my cheeks flare.

 

I pull back a bare few inches to examine what I’ve done. John stares at me, eyes wide with shock.

 

“You… I… what?” he manages. He isn’t strung taut with desire, but he isn’t running away, either.

 

“Please, please,” I beg, and it’s perfect; it is _so much easier_ to ask favors for my body rather than my heart.

 

None of this is familiar, but instinct is a heady force, so I press my mouth back to John’s and swallow his next words. The touch of his tongue on mine jolts through me. There’s no need to speak, this is good enough, this is more than good enough…

 

Then he pulls back again, stammering, and this time I let him go.

 

He tries to simultaneously jump out of his chair and run his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t quite succeed at either, but finally gets on his feet after slamming his calf against the coffee table.

 

“This – uh – this isn’t – I have to go to bed,” he says, and flees.

 

There’s no hint of a limp in his gait as he runs up the stairs.

 

I sit in silence for a long time until my heart rate has normalized and I can’t feel the ghost of John’s lips on mine. I sit until the beginnings of sunlight creep through the blinds. This sort of thing is more suited to darkness, if I recall properly, and anyway John has a shift at the surgery today. So I leave, and don’t come back till dark.

 

John is waiting when I finally walk back in the door.

 

“So tell me,” he asks, looking back over his shoulder as he dries dishes, “did you wait until technical nighttime or just until technical darkness?”

 

“Both,” I tell him. He isn’t looking at me anymore, so I walk forward cautiously. I know this is the solution, but sometimes it takes John longer to see these things. I was good, I gave him space, I let him run away last night, but it’s so hard to predict what normal people want. Ordinarily I don’t waste time trying.

 

“So…” I see his shoulders tense. The dishes are all dry and stored away, but John has yet to turn around. “About… you know. The thing.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You can’t just – Look, this isn’t – I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Sherlock, but quit it.”

 

I step right up to his back so that I’m in his personal space but not touching him. “Don’t you?” I ask. I reach out my hand. He twitches when my fingers land on his back, but doesn’t move as I trail them down his spine.

 

“What? No, I, uh – no, I don’t.” His stillness and dazed tone are encouraging, so I lean down to drop a kiss on the back of his neck.

 

John may have softened over the years, but his instincts are still sharp. At the touch to exposed skin he whirls around and grabs my wrists; shoves my hips back into the kitchen table with his own. Closeness is the goal here, so I don’t fight, and it turns out to be just as well because the feel of his hands and body on mine all at once is extremely distracting.

 

His eyes glaze over for a second and I guess he may be feeling the same, so I tug lightly, testing his grip on my wrists. His hands go tight and his gaze snaps into focus. I shiver involuntarily.

 

“Alright,” he says roughly, looking at my mouth. “Fine.” Then he kisses me.

 

My hands tug ineffectually at his shirt. We kiss open-mouthed, demanding and surrendering, measuring out fractional changes in the tilts of our heads. I find it difficult to focus on getting buttons undone when I have the wet heat of his breath on my tongue.

 

I want his hands on me; want my hands on him. He might even feel the same. But that is not why we’re doing this.

 

Last night I initiated it, made him think that the desire coiled in my gut demanded it (calculated, but honest). Something I wanted, but likely not something I would have acted on if not for John’s needs, for his demands. His body expects sex; his mind expects a connection. It would have been someone else if not me. Why would I let it be someone else when it could be me? I would do, will do anything to keep him close. I think John feels the same.

 

Are we damaging the now; sullying the memory of then? Or are we finally embracing the now, honoring then? Impossible to tell. There is a yawning chasm between the two (Then: No sex required of each other; happily obtained from other sources (women, hand). Now: If anything required, will attempt to fulfill in order to be more necessary), so large that it precludes any accurate prediction.

 

Mutual need for mutual need. Is that the same as love?

 

“Sure you want to do this?” John whispers against my lips, voice low and hoarse. He pulls back and looks me straight in the eye, forgetting to be afraid to.

 

“Please,” I say. His eyes light up and all the data slots perfectly into place, my equations as flawless as ever.


	10. Jagged Edges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO sorry about the long wait, guys! Real life caught up with me and kicked my butt for a little while there. I should be back to posting much more regularly now. So if you're still reading, thank you, I come bearing a rating upgrade! ;)

John angles his body and leans into me, pressing his hip just below mine – _oh._ I gasp, and he smiles wickedly.

 

He brings his mouth to mine and then stops, our lips barely brushing, as if undecided. If I was thinking clearly the implicit rejection might make me draw back, but somehow that isn’t how things work right now and instead I try desperately to move forward so I can kiss him. But moving forward shoves me against John’s hips again and I whimper, caught in between, wanting and having at the same time.

 

John chuckles deep in his throat. He pushes closer and pulls another embarrassing whine from me. I half-close my eyes in anticipation, but he just nuzzles my jaw and begins pressing wet kisses down my neck. I moan and tip my head back, not so much offering as begging him to take what he wants.

 

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John murmurs against the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. As if that’s important.

 

I can’t think. I can’t think. I can’t think.

 

“Sherlock…” Out of the corner of my eye I see John glance up at me through heavy-lidded eyes just before he bites down on my collarbone.

 

“Oh!”

 

“Ah, so you can speak.” His hands start to move by my waist and my mind goes wild with anticipation. I can feel the warm brush of fingertips hovering by the last button of my shirt. He could slide his fingers in the space between the buttons to touch my skin. Or he could grab fistfuls of it and pull it out of my trousers; tear it off entirely. He could slide his hand down, follow it past the top of my trousers, push the silk ends of it down until it covers me and squeeze…

 

I realize that I’m panting and John’s stopped moving.

 

“J- John?”

 

“Sherlock.” His tone has changed completely and I immediately pull myself straighter and look down. John tears his eyes away from my midriff and stares up at me, eyes big and mouth slightly open. He looks at me desperately, like he hopes I’ll tell him what to do.

 

I want this very, very badly; as much as I ever wanted the cocaine. And if I tell him right now to shut up and fuck me, I think he might do it. It might even be a kindness; the sort of tough love, put up or shut up that military men like him respond to.

 

But I look at the taut muscles in John’s neck and the hard line of his shoulders and say, “It’s fine, John. It’s fine. We don’t… Let’s just stop.”

 

He steps away and stares at me and I don't know what to say.

 

At the same time John and I both remember that we have urgent things to do, and stumble away to do them, not making eye contact for the rest of the night. I vacillate between feeling intensely unsatisfied and feeling intensely uncomfortable.

 

Neither of us leave the flat, though.

 

In the morning I bump into John as he makes breakfast and accidentally knock his elbow into a bowl of pig's blood. He snarls at me and the expression is at once comforting and unfamiliar. He doesn't do this anymore; we're both so much more careful with each other now. He used to shout at me all the time.

 

I don’t want to trade sex with John for John’s anger, but if that is in fact what’s happened, I won’t count it as a complete loss.

 

I know that Lestrade and Mycroft and the few other acquaintances I have were always puzzled by what drew John and I together. They thought that if I were to form an attachment with anyone, it would be with someone warm and pleasant and polite. Someone soft, who could wear off my harsh corners with tolerant affection.

 

John is none of these things. He usually maintains a modicum of politeness, but will drop it in an instant if he's crossed. John is battle-worn, often harsh, and frequently surly. He is the immovable object to my irresistible force. Who would want to share a flat with him, indeed.

 

None of it's a front; not with either of us. He isn't putting on a tough mask to hide himself any more than I'm shielding myself from a world that's hurt me. Neither of us are particularly pleasant people, but we come by it honestly. We are who we are. And we appreciate that in each other as nobody else could.

 

I see these things clearly now, in a way I didn't before, simply because I was never looking. I didn't have to. John handed over his phone and we looked at each other and our jagged edges fit together somehow in a way I never would have thought to look for; a function of black humor and thick skins. It was so easy.

 

But now I've been away and John's been alone and both of us are different. I'm trying, trying to make things work, and I never would have done it before and it's ruining everything but I can't stop it. It's like all knowledge: once it's known, it can't be un-known.

 

John's changes are different, subtler than mine. They're the sort he would have after a long relationship with a woman who's good for him. He's forcing himself to be calmer, gentler...

 

Actually, perhaps how we've changed isn’t so different after all. And maybe that means there’s a way to get back to where we used to be.

 

"John," I say, looking around. Ah yes, he's still here. He shuffles his newspaper and glares at me over it. For an instant it occurs to me to wonder what John has been thinking about all this time (how long have I been sitting here thinking?), but I dismiss it in favor of focusing on my train of thought.

 

"What is it?"

 

Unperturbed by his flat tone, I ask, "Have I ever told you about Victor?"

 

Several complicated things pass across John's face too quickly for me to examine. He settles on looking wary and lowering the newspaper.

 

"No. This isn't... Well... No. No, you haven't."

 

I steeple my fingers and press them to my mouth momentarily, attempting to organize my thoughts in a way John might understand.

 

"I met him at university," I say. Though John still looks uneasy, his attention is rapt. "I was walking to class and his dog nearly took off my ankle. In spite of my obvious displeasure, he came by my room the next day to check that I was alright. He was ashamed of the fact that he had been useless at the sight of blood and wanted to make it up to me, though that was of course unnecessary. He continued to come by and over time we became... cordial."

 

I take a breath and weigh my words in my mind. I'm trying to express things that I barely believe in; ideas I never waste time thinking about. My grasp of the English language is impeccable, and yet, this is difficult.

 

"Victor was... nice, I suppose, though that hardly covers it. You would have thought him charming, I’m sure. But he was more than merely nice. He was the sort of person who would put the needs of other's before his own unthinkingly. He believed the best of people, including me." John gives me a look and I roll my eyes. "Yes, well, I never said he was the wisest man, did I? Though he was quite intelligent. He was interested in my deductions, similar to you. He…”

 

“Alright,” John grinds out, and I blink in surprise at his face, which looks thunderous. “So you shagged him. Great. I’m really – I’m dead chuffed for you.”

 

I blink again and frown. “What? No! For God’s sake, John.”

 

“Then what the bloody hell is the point of this story?”

 

I bite back a sigh. This is so simple, and yet he can’t seem to see it. I need to break it down further, even if I need to sacrifice some intricacies to do it.

 

“My _point_ is that he was a friend. That I _could_ have a friend like him. You see?” Friend is the wrong word – because we have established that John is my friend and if he is my friend, then no matter what fondness I may hold for other people, none of them can also claim that word – but it’s close enough, and if I use any other terminology John will probably just want to argue semantics all day.

 

I clasp my hands and look at John expectantly.

 

John’s eyes go wide and his eyebrows draw together as the edges of his mouth droop down. He looks down and then back up at me. For the briefest instant his guard drops far enough that I feel his hurt hit me like an unexpected punch in the gut. Then, just as quickly, his face smoothes out and his eyes go cool. He stands up and walks away before I can even lift a hand to stop him, leaving me gasping for air and wondering what just happened.


	11. Tailspin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know - WHAT? Y'all thought this was abandoned. But I never abandon anything I start, though sometimes it takes me months and months to finish, apparently. Sorry about this, but I just could not think of a way to make this work from Sherlock's perspective. If that mars your enjoyment, I sincerely apologize. The next chapter (already written) is back to first-person Sherlock.

_**John's POV** _

 

"Stop right there!" the murderer screeches out into the alley.  
  
They don't, of course. How could they? They're Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and backing away at the sign of danger isn't a part of their repertoire.  
  
Of course, John isn't sure that being _John and Sherlock_ is really part of their repertoire anymore, either. Ever since Sherlock made his miraculous return from the dead, things have been... well, strained isn't the word, not really. Both of them have been trying so hard. Too hard. Sherlock has been almost considerate, and it's been impossible for the man to hide his efforts. And John...  
  
John isn't sure of anything anymore. He'd been sure that Sherlock wasn't dead, and he'd been right. It threw John into a tailspin. Men weren't supposed to be right about these things.  
  
He’s been angry and broken and now he just feels wrecked. He couldn’t function without Sherlock, and now John can’t function with him either. John isn't sure these days if he’s trusting himself too much, or too little. The only thing he can be sure of is that he can't trust Sherlock at all.  
  
Not that Sherlock did anything wrong exactly. He didn't. That’s sort of the problem. Sherlock’s proved to John and the whole goddamned world that he'd do anything to keep John safe. And that’s it, right there - John can't trust Sherlock worth a damn because John is too stupid to comprehend the world at Sherlock's level, too stupid to protect himself.

Sherlock seems afraid of himself these days, like that speech he wrenched out about what he might have done if John died. And that’s such absolute shite that okay, maybe John does still trust Sherlock, because John knows in the quiet absolute part of himself that his best friend is a good man. Not a kind man. Not a nice man. But a good one. And while John can completely believe that Sherlock would tear himself apart if John died, he is positive that Sherlock wouldn’t take anyone with him.  
  
If it doesn’t happen like that, then his best friend will kill himself one day trying to save John, he knows. The worst part is that John would never even understand how it had happened when it was all over.

The obvious solution was to push Sherlock away, but John can’t do it. Of course he can’t. He’s never been able to tell Sherlock no, not once in his cursed life. John knows intellectually that Sherlock isn’t happy, but he also sees those desperate stolen glances that Sherlock tries to hide, and while maybe a long time ago he was strong enough to unselfishly push both of them through that kind of pain – well, if he was, then John isn’t as strong as he used to be. He’ll die before he puts Sherlock through out-and-out heartbreak. He’ll kill them both.

Which is pretty much what it comes to, in the end.

The serial killer is waving his weapon in that inexperienced manner that’s a thousand times more danger than the precision of a professional, and John is being far more flippant about it than he can afford. His mind is stretched in a thousand directions – the memory of Sherlock gasping and begging in John’s hands; that infuriating speech about how Sherlock doesn’t need John because he could have other friends (and seriously what the _fuck_ was that); wondering if Sherlock actually wants sex and if John actually wants sex and if he’s really far too old to be thinking of himself as gay or bisexual or whatever the kids are calling it these days…

Click.

It’s probably just his mind playing tricks on him, but bullets travel fast enough that the noise of the trigger clicking would still be audible, and this is what rings in John’s ears when the impact slams into him and agony flares in his leg.

“Oh,” John gasps, and falls backward onto the dirty alley ground, his hands hitting old newspapers and rain puddles. 

He waits out those moments familiar to anyone who’s felt true pain before, where the noise of the world goes muffled and he has to struggle to draw breath into his lungs. From his dazed perspective John watches the serial killer stumble back, drop the gun, and take off running. Nice of him to take off once he’s gotten his break, rather than finishing the job, John supposes. Apparently shooting the shit out of someone doesn’t have quite the same _je ne sais quoi_ that decapitation does.

“John. John. John.”

Function starts to return, and John twists his head around to the side just as Sherlock collapses to his knees next to John, his eyes impossibly wide and his already pale face approaching translucency.

“Wait up, would you two – oh fuck, John, you alright?” Lestrade’s voice emerges from the back of the alley.

John can feel Sherlock’s short, sharp breaths on the side of his neck as he angles his thigh so he can see the bloodstrain spreading over the side of his jeans.

“I – yeah,” he says, still slightly winded. “Hurts like hell, but pretty sure it’s just a graze.” John feels around his knee and further up near his groin, which confirms his suspicions – it doesn’t hurt. If he’d really been shot his entire body would be flaring up in agony.

Sherlock’s breathing stutters against his skin, and John turns back to see that – damn.

“Sherlock, you need to breathe,” John says, drawing his good leg up under him so that he’s turned slightly toward his friend.

“John,” seems to be all that Sherlock’s capable of saying.   
  
He looks down to see Sherlock’s hands raised toward him, shaking too badly to make it all the way over. There’s a cold sweat beaded on the man’s forehead, and his breath is starting to stick and shudder.

“Shit. You’re going into shock, Sherlock. I need you to breathe.”

Sherlock tries to say something, but John doesn’t know what it is because he sees the words knot up in Sherlock’s throat. He’s choking and gasping for air in a way that tells John he’s going to pass out. 

“I’ll call for an ambulance,” John hears Donovan put in, but it’s starting to fade away from him. The volume on the world turns down; all John can see is Sherlock panting and staring at him like the world is about to end.

  
And John - John's a doctor, he _knows_ what to do when someone's having a panic attack; knows to give them space and keep them cool if possible. But he surges forward anyway, completely unable to stop himself, and folds Sherlock in his arms as the man trembles. "It's fine, it's fine," he whispers against Sherlock's temple, not giving him any room at all. And damned if maybe there isn't something to all those romantic cliches after all, because impossibly the desperate shuddering eases and Sherlock's breathing slows.  
  
"Shit, shit," Lestrade is swearing in the background as John rocks Sherlock in his arms. The words bring awareness back to the surface of John's mind, and he remembers distantly that the rest of the team is gathered around watching - Sally and, shit, Anderson too. John can't quite make himself care, though: Sherlock's bony shoulders are knocking against his chest and the man's face is pressed into John's neck so that John can feel Sherlock's lips moving as his teeth chatter.  
  
It's another of those moments that John has only ever found in his old friend adrenaline, and in Sherlock - one of those moments where everything falls away and becomes simple with the knowledge of what you have to do.  
  
John is a ruthless man, he knows. People don't understand what that word means, Sherlock told him once, after he said as much to John and John looked offended. People think that "ruthless" is another synonym for "mean". But it's not. All it says is that you see point A and point B, and are able to push everything else away so that you can see the line between them.  
  
It wasn't something John could deny once he gave it any thought. When insurgents rushed his troops, John dropped to one knee and started shooting, and didn't stop picking off sandaled men until a bullet tore through his own shoulder. When a civilian - no matter how long John's known them - is threatened, he takes whatever steps are necessary to protect them, laws and legislation be damned.  
  
When Sherlock Holmes needs him, everything else falls away.  
  
"You're amazing. You're wonderful. You're everything," John finds himself muttering into Sherlock's hair, and is as surprised as anyone to hear it. He's been murmuring nonsense as he strokes his hand down Sherlock's back, gentling him like a panicked animal. Now that he's thinking again, it occurs to John to wonder exactly what he's been saying. "That is - ah, hell. Nevermind. Shh, it's fine. I'm fine. You're fine. It's okay."  
  
His leg is starting to hurt again, and that's how John knows the immediate danger has passed.  
  
"I know I'm fine," Sherlock finally says, that deep voice slightly strangled. He brings up his hands to splay long fingers over John's chest, though he doesn't quite push John away. "Where's the ambulance?"  
  
"Why?" John says, relief hitting him hard in the gut at the sound of the hoarse words. "Did you want a shock blanket?"  
  
Sherlock growls wordlessly and John’s mouth quirks into a rusty smile. His arms finally loosen enough to allow him to swing around to Sherlock's side and sit down hard on the dirty alley ground.   
  
Yup, the whole Scotland Yard crew is staring at them wide-eyed and scandalized. Excellent work, John Watson, he thinks, and starts to laugh slightly hysterically.  
  
When they offer it to him, John refuses the blanket.


	12. Chemical Reactions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand back to Sherlock. I had an indecent amount of fun writing everyone in shock, just fyi. And yes, I have a soft spot for Sally Donovan. There's something to be said for lawful good, even when it isn't nice.

John is fine, of course. His wounds are dressed in the ambulance itself; there is no need even for a hospital.

Which means that there’s no reason for my hands to still be shaking. No reason that I should still have to focus on keeping my breaths deep enough that spots don’t dance in front of my eyes. No reason that I shouldn’t have enough willpower to do more than glare when Sally Donovan drapes an obnoxiously orange shock blanket over my shoulders.

“He’s fine, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, relief evident in his voice. He rakes his fingers through his hair and huffs out a long sigh.

“I know,” I say through gritted teeth. I want to come up with some clever retort; to insult his intelligence so everyone knows that everything is, in fact, just fine. That I am just fine.

I can’t – I can’t think.

My eyes move away from Lestrade’s face because the mingled pity and surprise are… uncomfortable. Unfortunately when I look elsewhere, I see Anderson only a few feet to his left. The utter shock on his face eradicates what little remains of my self-control.

“Oh for God’s sake,” I exclaim, though it comes out wrong, too thin and weak, as I have to catch my breath in between words. “Is it really so surprising to your half-rotted brains that John is – that I can’t – that he…”

I find I can no longer speak at all, actually.

A hand – not John’s – claps down on my shoulder and I blink up at its owner in surprise.

“That’s enough,” Donovan says firmly. I’m not entirely sure if she’s talking to me or the rest of them. She crouches down on her heels and though she removes her hand, she looks at me steadily. “John is just fine, Sherlock. He’s being very brave. I’m sure it hurts a bit, but he hasn’t given the medical workers any trouble.”

She’s talking to me like a blasted child. It immediately becomes imperative that I inform her of how ludicrous her feeble-minded attempts at so-called help are.

I open my mouth. “John’s always brave,” I say.

“Of course he is.” Donovan smiles at me, the first time I can remember seeing her smile. It doesn’t look entirely real, but then, it doesn’t look entirely fake either. “He was a soldier, right? Soldiers have to be brave.”

I frown at her, and find I’m able to see her more clearly. The fuzzy edges of the world ratchet into focus, like twisting the dials of a microscope. “John is much braver. He has to – has to help people. Doesn’t like sitting around. That’s why he wasn’t – wasn’t happy when the Army sent him away.” The effort of speaking makes me pant around the words. I have to focus to get them out, and even then, there’s a niggling suspicion in the back of my mind that I’m not saying them exactly right.

Donovan glances off to the right and then looks back around at me. “Is that how you met, then?” Her radio crackles to life at her waist and she frowns at it. I can’t understand the static, and I don’t bother to try.

“Is what how we met? Honestly, Sally, that question doesn’t make any sense. Yes, the Army invalided him, if that was what you meant. The Army is stupid.” I sniff. “We were introduced because neither of us could find a flatmate.”

With a small grunt Donovan pushes herself back up onto her feet. She looks away again and then back at me, smiling a little. “And that’s worked out quite well, hasn’t it?”

She says the question sincerely but it twists in my stomach. I raise my head, which no longer feels impossibly heavy, and look at the sprawling mob of police offers, the flashing lights of the ambulance, and see the flash of lamppost light on the steel barrel of the gun as it’s sealed away into an evidence bag.

“Oh yes, quite well,” I tell Donovan’s back, and put my head in my hands.

I hear footsteps.

“Thank you,” a familiar voice says above me.

“No bother,” Donovan replies in hushed tones. “You two going to be able to get home intact? One of us could give you a ride in a squad car.”

“Ta, but we’re alright.” Shadow blocks out the glow of light beyond my closed eyelids, and a warm, calloused hand settles at the back of my neck. I think I almost moan at the sensation. I’m being tossed on a high tide of horrible thoughts, terrible images, and a potent cocktail of my body’s chemical responses. I can barely tell between pleasure and pain at this point.

“Sherlock,” John says softly. “Sherlock, look at me, please.”

I don’t move my hands.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John says, more forcefully this time. “I need you to open your eyes. We have to get home.”

I can’t. He doesn’t understand. If I have to look at John – have to forcibly remind myself that John is here and this is remarkable because just a little while ago I saw someone raise a gun and fire it and I saw John fall and there was blood and John’s face blank with pain and no way to tell how bad it was and I couldn’t move and if the man had shot again John would be dead because I couldn’t move and I brought him here and John –

“Oh, Sherlock.” John’s voice shivers across my face in a cold burst. My eyes fly open when I realize that he’s reached out and pulled my hands away, so that he can see there are twin wet trails on either side of my face.

Chemical reactions.

The rough pad of his thumb strokes across one of my cheekbones, and I have to fight to keep from shutting my eyes again. My throat closes.

“We’re going home,” he says, and I nod.


	13. Turning It Into Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks - those of you that commented asking for updates, this is entirely because of you. I couldn't let it go when there were people that still wanted the rest. More is coming!

We are both idiots, and are in fact almost entirely incapable of getting home intact on our own.

John has most of his faculties about him, but he’s injured, and though he keeps insisting it’s just a graze, he’s limping for England. He’s in no state to be helping someone insensate.

And, horribly, I find that I’m barely able to keep my eyes open and walk.

“Come on, just one more flight of stairs,” John encourages me. He has an arm around my waist and he’s at least a foot shorter than me and he’s been fucking shot in the leg, and yet, it is somehow beyond me to just put one foot in front of the other to get into our flat. I imagine I’d be ashamed if I wasn’t exhausted in a way I’ve never experienced before, a near white-out.

I’m still annoyed by his coddling, though.

“Yes, I know precisely how many stairs there are, despite the fact that you almost certainly do not although you’ve lived here even longer than I now,” I don’t say. I don’t say it because when I open my mouth an embarrassing sort of whining noise emerges and I shut it again immediately.

For some reason this sort of nonsense doesn’t seem to displease John. In fact, he stops and strokes a broad hand down my spine, and rests his cheek against my shoulder so that I can feel his breath on the side of my face. He doesn’t say anything; just touches me.

It’s almost worth acting like an idiot for. Almost, but not quite.

A year ago, though, I would have thought nothing on earth was worth acting like an idiot, and I would have been wrong through sheer inexperience. Not wanting to be a fool is a different sort of want entirely from the way I want John to be alive. There’s nothing dignified about how desperately I need John just to exist. 

My foot catches on the doorway and I realize that somehow John’s got me inside. Another brilliant deduction; well done me.

By using all of my willpower I manage to focus on the buzz in my ears and turn it into words.

“…And there’s no way I’m going to get up those stairs, and I really don’t fancy the sofa right now, so I hope you don’t hate me in the morning, but I’m bunking with you tonight. It’s not like - Oh, whatever. You can’t even hear me right now.”

“Listening. Don’t mind,” I manage to force out. Thank God, we’re at my bedroom door. I’m frankly too tired to even be excited at the idea that John will be sleeping with me, though just aware enough to be disappointed that I can’t be excited.

“Of course you bloody are,” John grumbles. His fingers bite into my sides. He’s weary too. “You would be listening at the least… convenient…”

And I’m gone.

 

* * * 

 

I blink awake - hours, days? - later and look straight up into very blue eyes.

I think I smile without intending to, because the corners of John’s eyes crinkle. He’s pale but obviously alert. My eyes search out more skin but I’m disappointed; he’s wearing the same shirt as yesterday, which covers more skin than a Victorian maiden. Both of us are still dressed, actually. It’s not hugely comfortable, but I suppose I have very little room to complain.

John’s lying next to me with his head propped up on his hand, slivers of sunlight from my window falling into his hair and lighting it up like it must have looked in Afghanistan, when it was bleached by desert sun.

That’s the only thing Now Sherlock and Then Sherlock both wonder about John: Whether or not he smiled more in Afghanistan. Could he, just possibly, be happier here with me?

I doubt it, but even Then, sometimes I would let myself believe it.

“Over the shock?” John says. There’s no false courtesies, no sheltering of precious feelings I don’t have. It’s perfect. He’s perfect.

I am not, which must be why I blurt out, “I love you.”

Immediately I cringe back and regret it, but it’s too late to do anything but watch John’s eyes shutter. He drops his hand from his cheek and looks away from me.

“Guess not then,” he says, and gives a tinny half-laugh I despise.

Now I wish that I’d paid more attention to at least one or two pop culture efforts on love. Maybe then I’d know what to do. Maybe someone who’d watched every episode of Glee with Molly wouldn’t have actually pushed themselves away from John, to the other end of the bed.

I’m somehow still tired, though I can tell by the light that I’ve slept at least eight hours, and this now is so very far from then that I can’t even see the lines of the map anymore. 

“Don’t go,” I order him, because it seems I’ve lost the plot completely.

John is still just watching me, but his muscles are tensed and his gaze is sharpened so that his relaxed pose looks completely unnatural now. 

But at my words something changes; he blinks and then suddenly he relaxes again. He barks out a laugh and I close my eyes for just a moment because although it’s rough and ragged and slightly bitter, that is John’s real laugh. 

He heaves a huge sigh and then he’s pushed himself along the bed, right in front of me, near enough that I can feel his body heat. Normally I would find this all claustrophobic, but I find myself wanting to lean in.

John doesn’t touch me, but his shoulders curve forward like he’s shielding me from something. It’s likely just what’s comfortable to him - he was shot the other night, after all, and if I was a better man I would be thinking about that rather than assuming he’ll be fine - but it sends an odd thrill through me all the same.

“What if this is a terrible idea?” John says, though he already sounds resigned. Resignation isn’t the desire of any lover, though it might be enough for a friend. I don’t know which I am. I’m still tired.

“What if I don’t care?” I say, and bury my face in his bad shoulder.

John grunts, probably more from surprise than pain. Probably I should care more which it is. Probably he shouldn’t let me stay there.

He does.


	14. The Look-Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood, I suppose. Split POV.

John is right. I do hate him in the morning.

I wake up for the second time with my face buried in the crook of John’s shoulder and I finally feel like myself again. Which is a pity, because I don’t much like waking up to see John staring at me as I drool into his shoulder. He’s got his head propped up on his hand again and he’s giving me some sort of overly familiar look. I can’t quite place it; his eyes are soft and there’s a tiny edge of a smile tugging at the corner of his cheek, almost like…

Like he’s mocking me.

Yanking away from him is awkward because I bring my hand up to my mouth to try to wipe away the damp there. My other arm is numb and I fall back, tangled in sheets.

John is still staring at me. He looks warier now, but not like he’s afraid _of_ me; like he’s afraid _for_ me. And that makes me angry all over again.

“Alright?” he asks. He sits up and attempts to stretch his shoulder; winces. He grits his teeth and half-rolls it a couple times while staring at the duvet. Staring away from me.

“No,” I hiss. John barely looks at me.

“Well, too bad, time to get up. We need showers and something to eat. And, uh…” He plucks up the duvet and trails off as he stares under it. The bandage on his wound hasn’t been changed. Not good.

What do I want? I can’t even remember. My head knows that I wanted - want - John, but all I feel in my gut is anger where that want used to be. And wanting John - as a friend, as a lover - never had anything to do with my intellect.

Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I begin to comprehend what Mycroft meant when he told me, _“You have very poor impulse control, Sherlock.”_

Things I did out of curiosity or spite never mattered before, not to me. It was Mummy and Mycroft and sometimes even Lestrade that seemed to suffer most.

But now, though I don’t know it for sure, I feel a suspicion hovering around the edges of my mind like a deduction. That suspicion is that I’m acting on a fleeting impulse; that I won’t feel this way forever. That I’m going to hurt myself.

Off at the other end of the bed, John’s been working on maneuvering himself upright. He hasn’t asked for my help. Of course not. And, of course, I haven’t offered. He lowers his hurt leg down toward the floor and yelps, and I snap.

“Would you SHUT UP?” I yell, and bolt out of bed. John snaps his head around to look at me - he’s not even glaring; probably in too much pain. Saint John.

Well, as I keep trying to tell people, I’m not a good man. I’m the kind of man who would begrudge a hero his sacrifices.

But I never wanted to be saved.

John opens his mouth to say something, I don’t know what. If I’m going to be bad then I might as well be a coward too, so still in my grimy, alley-stained clothes I run out the flat and slam the door before John ever gets the chance to respond.

 

***

 

“Jeeeeeeesus Christ, mate!”

I grit my teeth and look heavenward to a God I don’t believe in for patience. I don’t have - well, no, I have time. I just don’t have the patience for this. And we - I really need to start locking the front door.

“Hullo, Lestrade. Sorry, I’m not a pretty sight right now.” The bandages look worse than the graze itself does. Mostly. I concentrate on peeling off dirty gauze.

“I’ll fucking say.” He’s clearly not all that put off, though, because Lestrade walks right around and sits across from where I’ve got my leg spread out on the coffee table. Not ideal, but hell, I was a combat medic. I’ve seen worse.

So has Lestrade, come to think of it.

“Uh… something I can do for you? I’m a bit preoccupied.” Subtlety and charm were never my best traits.

Lestrade clearly isn’t listening; he’s staring at my damn leg and digging his fingers through his hair.

For a split second, even though my leg hurts and I’m trying not to remember all the terrible things that could happen to it, trying not to be too afraid for myself just because I’ve been injured before, but this isn't the same, move on, Watson… I give Lestrade the look-over.

You know the one; the one that’s reserved for breasts and skirts and _women_. The, well, the “would/would not shag” look. And I give it to Lestrade.

_Fuck._

I mentally curse my horrible, soulless shell of a flatmate for doing this, for making me consider doing _things_ with him just because it’s him, and making me… Making me expand the look-over criteria.

As I’m distracted doing that, Lestrade must notice something because he sits straight up, looks around, and says, “Wait, where’s that sodding flatmate of yours?”

Probably the question and the memory of Sherlock snarling at me for daring to be injured should hurt more than it does. I don’t know. Maybe I’m in shock.

“Dunno,” I shrug, and bend down to carry on with the bandaging. Lestrade can fend for himself in the wilds of our flat. “Bit my head off for making noise when I tried to stand this morning, and then he took off like a bat out of hell.”

Alright, maybe I’m a little annoyed.

“He did - Okay, I really shouldn’t be surprised by that,” Lestrade says. I nod without looking up. “Hey. That doesn’t mean it’s okay, though.”

I shrug. “What can you do, eh?” My fingers weave through the bandages, gathering and folding. My own blood coats my fingertips and begins to streak down my fingers.

“John…” Lestrade sounds suddenly serious, which makes me look up at him reflexively. His eyes are wide and genuine. He looks concerned. He is concerned. Lestrade is the kind of man everyone thinks I am.

And… maybe? Would I? Oh God. What about Sherlock? What _about_ him? Would he care if I did shag Lestrade? Would I shag Sherlock? Fuck, would he care if _we_ shagged?

My head, my leg, everything hurts. My hand shakes. I involuntarily drop a bandage and just let my head fall into my open palm, streaking half-dried blood over my face like war paint.

“What is it, Lestrade? I have to…” I can’t finish, but he won’t make me. Lestrade’s a good man.

I wonder what he’s going to say as the silence stretches out. Will he tell me I should leave? Will he just pat me on the shoulder like another poor beaten-down bastard? Will he ask what I did to make Sherlock leave; why I can’t… why he doesn’t care anymore?

Lestrade swallows. “Do you need a ride to hospital?” he asks.


	15. You Won't, Sometimes

Walking back into the flat again should probably make me feel remorseful, but it doesn’t. And seeing Lestrade inside with his jacket off and sleeves rolled up, making himself comfortable in our space, doesn’t improve my mood.

“I had to take John to hospital to get his fucking bullet wound dressed,” he snarls at me. The tips of his ears are red.

“It was a graze,” I snarl right back. He clearly put John back in my room. I have no idea what I’m going to say, but I start walking down the hall toward John.

Lestrade grabs my sleeve to stop me. I do stop, if only to gape at the impertinence. My sneer is at best half of its full force; I’m so terribly glad to have someone I can safely take my anger out on.

(And yet, I notice it. Then, I wouldn’t have.)

“What are you going to do, tell me I don’t deserve him? Fight for his hand?” I pull my sleeve out of his grasp. He stares at me grimly, so certain that he’s in the right, in a way that I’ve never been. But that sort of certainty comes with responsibility I’ve never wanted.

“Don’t be… No. Of course not.” Lestrade hunches his shoulders and runs a palm over his face. Something about the image of him bent and slightly warped like that sends a shudder through me. I don’t like it. I want it to stop.

“I’m doing my best,” I find myself saying, if only because I want Lestrade to stop looking like I’ve broken him.

Lestrade’s hand slides down his face and I see to my surprise that he’s smiling; a wry, unhappy twist of a smile. I hate it when people use their facial expressions in ways they weren’t meant to be used.

“I believe you, Sherlock,” he says. “But your best isn’t good enough.”

What?

I open my mouth and then close it again, because I hate repetition, even if it’s of something in my own head. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even dare glance down the hall. I feel as though the door’s been shut in my face.

Someone’s finally come out and said it: _Sherlock, you are not good enough._

It’s a relief, in a way. Both to hear the words at last, and to have this freedom. I can finally walk away without guilt - this is the better choice for John. It will hurt to be without him, yes, but I’ve done it before. I can do it again. I don’t have to try to make this work anymore. Better men than I have agreed to it.

I’m free. It’s all I ever really wanted, and coming back here was a mistake. Not now, months ago, coming back from the dead. Coming here at all, the very first time that something about John caught my interest at the lab.

But…

There’s no noise from the room down the hall. I look at it anyway, and then back at Lestrade.

“What should I do?” I ask, and for once in my life the question I ask is all that I mean.

Lestrade screws up his forehead and grinds the heel of his palm into it.

“I wish I knew,” he says heavily. “He’s good for you - sort of - but you’re fucking awful for him. At least… I don’t know. You must do something for him, though, because I’ve never seen a man like John look at another person that way.”

A man like John? What does that even mean? I open my mouth to ask, but instead, “What if I’m just a substitute for the Army?” comes out.

I immediately regret it, both because I didn’t want to say that out loud, and because now Lestrade looks horrified all over again.

“Sherlock - hell, Sherlock, have you - have you seriously been resenting this for _years_?” I shake my head but his eyebrows stay raised; he doesn’t believe me. “That’s - you’re unbelievable. You’re holding against him the _possibility_ that you might be a substitute for the thing he dedicated his life to? Most people would be fucking honored, you ungrateful berk!”

Lestrade’s voice raises until he’s shouting at me and I can’t help it, I shout back, “I keep telling everyone, I’M NOT A GOOD MAN! Why won’t anyone believe me?”

A bitter smile slashes across Lestrade’s face.

“It’s not that we don’t believe you, trust me. It’s just still not okay.”

The anger dies half-formed on my tongue; I taste ash. We stare at each other. I look at Lestrade’s weather-beaten face and realize that most of the wrinkles on it weren’t there when we first met. I’m not the person I was when we met. Neither of us are anymore.

“Then… what do you expect me to do?” I ask, suddenly at a loss. My limbs feel heavy at my side. I want to lay down. I want to lay down in my bed. I don’t want John to move; just like I suspected earlier, that vicious hatred toward him has passed and now I know what I want, though I still don’t know why. I don’t know if I can have it, and I’m fairly certain that even if I get it, I won’t be able to keep it. Freedom - even with the loneliness and drugs and the corrosive kind of danger that hollows you out when you handle it too long - was easier.

I lift my hands clumsily, with effort I’m not used to, and start to undo the buttons on my jacket.

And I can’t say that people never surprise me, because Lestrade smiles again, and this time it looks sad but no longer angry.

“You have to try to be better, like the rest of us, Sherlock,” he says. Simple words from a simple man. It’s all so easy for him.

At least… I think so, anyway. I look carefully at the nicotine stains on his fingers and the bruising on his right knuckle. Everything used to feel so simple, and now it’s all gone fractal around me. My head hurts. It’s too complicated, these endless permutations of meaning and emotion.

“What if I don’t?” I challenge him, but my voice is weak, I can hear it.

Lestrade shrugs. He looks almost as tired as I feel. “Then you and John suffer for it, I guess.”

“What if I don’t care?” I ask again, but this isn’t a challenge so much as it is fear.

And he shrugs at me again. For a second that familiar anger rushes up my spine, but it dissipates as quickly as it came when he says quietly, “You won’t, sometimes. That’s the hard part, innit?”

Something about the sharp line of his shoulders stops me from saying anything as he grabs his jacket off the table, gives me a jerky nod, and walks out the door.

I stare after him. Then I stare down the hall, where John is lying in pain with the gunshot wound he got because of me; in bandages I could have helped with but didn't. He might need something.

I don’t walk down the hall, but I take off my jacket. I don’t walk out the door.

It has to be enough for now.


	16. Boats Against the Current

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John POV

I wake up to a beaky Sherlock nose right in my bloody face.

“Ahhhhh!” I shove myself backwards by way of shoving him right off the bed. Sherlock tumbles off the end in a whirl of overlong limbs and wide eyes. My heart rate slows and he surfaces again like some irritating and horribly wounded horror movie monster.

“What the hell are you playing at?” I try not to yell, but I don’t succeed very well. Mrs. Hudson is not going to be best pleased with me, gunshot wound or no.

“I was just checking to see if you were alright,” Sherlock says, exuding hurt. He missed his calling at the theater. Not a good one, mind you, but maybe a local theater.

“Well…” My breathing’s almost regular again, and I don’t have that edge of exhaustion anymore, the kind that can make you say things the way drink can. No, I’m awake now. This is the first time I’ve seen Sherlock since he yelled at me and ran out yesterday, leaving me to mop up my injuries on my own and ride Lestrade’s pity to hospital for help. Actually come to think of it, I should say something really hurtful about this, to drive the point home.

But in the end, although we both know the truth, I can’t quite summon up enough outrage to be willing to talk about our feelings. So I just say, “Well, I’m fine.”

Sherlock looks askance at me, like it shouldn’t be this easy. He’s right, but I just can’t be bothered. I shift my legs; my bandage is dry. The sun is at an odd place in the sky - I’m in Sherlock’s bed and I’ve woken up late.

We stare at each other for a moment and without any warning at all, something in my chest collapses. 

I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to dance around and pretend like everything’s okay; like everything’s the way it used to be before Sherlock went on his extended death-holiday and fucked it (me) all up. I don’t want to fight about it, either. I don’t want to come home and see someone else, even if it’s someone young and female and pretty.

I’m tired and I really, really, really need Sherlock to say the right thing for once.

“So… did you want something?” I ask.

Sherlock narrows his eyes and stares at me. For someone who’s so blindingly intelligent, he’s almost transparent. The trick is, you have to know what he’s on about in order to understand what you’re seeing. This time, I do.

He starts to smile and then stifles it.

“I’m tired,” he announces, his triumphant tone completely out of place with what he’s saying.

“Oh?” If I had any self-respect at all, I’d remind him that I’m obviously just about to get up.

Apparently I do not.

“Yes,” Sherlock nods, and clambers up onto the bed without even bothering to remove his suit jacket.

“Take this thing off,” I find myself laughing, pushing at his shoulders. His eyes widen and he glances down before obeying. Is he blushing?

I’ve no idea how innocent Sherlock really is, and no intention of asking. But I can’t lie; even the hints of it makes me feel protective of him. Maybe that’s the point. But then, maybe not. As far as I can tell, it doesn’t matter much either way.

He kicks at the covers and slides under them, under my arm. He falls asleep pretty much instantly, and I doze off too.

When I wake up, he’s staring at me again, though from a lower vantage point, as he’s still tucked under my arm.

“That’s creepy,” I tell him comfortably.

“Hmm,” is all Sherlock has to say to that. His body is a long, warm line against mine. I’m somewhere between horrified and intrigued to realize that I’m a little turned on.

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth a few times. I wonder idly what he’s about to say. Without meaning to I seem to have moved past this already.

My best guess is he’s about to tell me that he does care. Maybe even that he loves me.

“Come on the next case with me,” is what he actually says. Close enough.

I give a sharp laugh and Sherlock tilts his head, clearly expecting answers.

“And so we beat on, boats against the current…” I intone. Sherlock gives me an odd look.

“What?” I give another small chuckle; I can’t help it. “I do like to write, remember? I’m not always rough and ready.” The fact that anyone thinks I am at all is ridiculous; I’m an overblown paramedic, when all’s said and done. Getting shot was the most impressive thing I ever did on the field.

Sherlock frowns at me. “Yes you are,” he insists.

I open my mouth to contradict him.

Then I close it. I give him a half-grin instead. Sherlock huffs out a sigh and, content in winning another argument, jumps out of bed and goes over to his closet.

I’ll let Sherlock believe what he wants, even if I know better. Sometimes I think that’s all love is; being almost enough for the other person and willing to be something you’re not when they need that, too. It’s like a squad, or a rugby team - there’s no perfect one, only the ones that have people willing to step up when they don’t want to. Nobody wants to jump into a burning tank to pull out their mate, do they? But sometimes you do stupid things anyway, because you choose the team over yourself.

“Make me tea,” Sherlock instructs me without actually looking at me. He’s testing me.

“Bullet wound,” I sing out. I don’t think he flinches. I can’t tell.

Sherlock will have to learn to give up something if he wants whatever this is to work, but I won’t be the one to tell him that. I love - care - oh sod it, I love him too much to do that. Even if he needs telling.

If Sherlock figures this out, it won’t be because of me.


End file.
